Wheel in the Sky
by Jeva
Summary: A "match made in Heaven" for bloodlines to meet and destinies to be fulfilled, but in the beginning, it was simply a young couple who loved each other and their sons. -Ficlets of John and Mary Winchester before and after the tragedy of November 2nd, 1983.
1. lost but now found

**Wheel in the Sky**

_lost but now found_

...

The strangled scream was caught in his throat as he jerked awake, hand seeking his KA-BAR, since he couldn't feel the weight of his pack or see much else, gagging at the smell of gasoline and fire and blood in the air—

Freezing when his hand fell upon and gripped tightly at the small, delicate fingers that were starting to reach for him.

"John?"

Suddenly, the jungle—woods and lake?—was gone. The four walls of the bedroom weren't much of a comfort when he felt his chest heaving to get air into his lungs, claustrophobia sinking its teeth into his diaphragm and not wanting to give him any peace. The light of the lantern next to the bed made him flinch, and he grimaced when those soft blue eyes peered worriedly up at him. He covered the expression by running his hand over his face, cursing himself for shaking as he worked to control his breathing.

"John." Now her voice came with a bit of an edge. Not really a command, but enough of something in the tone to snap his eyes back to hers, startled by the intent and patient stare.

"... Mary?" He cringed inwardly at hearing his voice crack in the middle of her name. It was all he could do to keep his eyes on hers, starting again only when her free hand reached out to cup his cheek. It took a moment, but after staring into her eyes and reaching up to cup that hand with his, it suddenly became less of an effort to catch his breath.

He closed his eyes, taking a final shaking breath before turning his face into her hand, pressing his lips to her palm.

He could feel her sit up and shift closer, knowing it was okay to press closer now that the worst was out of the way. "John," she said quietly, soothingly, as if speaking to a wounded animal. "Baby..."

The hysteria was there, lurking and waiting for him to laugh, to cry. Once he started, he was terrified to think he wouldn't be able to stop.

"... m'sorry. Woke you," was what he managed to get out instead, beating down that bubble of laughter, voice more guttural for his effort.

"It's not late. I wasn't really asleep."

It was a flat-out, bold-faced lie but John couldn't help but press closer to his wife, reminding himself to breathe, counting the inhales and exhales along with her heartbeats.

He was so lucky to have Mary. He had heard stories of men who came back from the war changed, unable to keep a sane moment to him, doing just what he did in the middle of the night—screaming, fighting, feeling sick with the reminders of the horrors he'd scene. Most of them ended up in a hospital or worse. But Mary... Mary stayed by his side the whole time, soothed his fears, reminded him of the present—

"Do you want to talk about it?" She always offered.

He shook his head, kissed her hand again, shutting his eyes that much tighter. "No, just..." His voice wavered, and he hated himself for being so weak, reined himself in again like his commanders had taught him. "I think I just confused a few things, s'all."

Mary stayed dutifully silent but strong next to him, leaning against his shoulder.

It wasn't an uncommon nightmare. Especially around that time of year, around the time John had originally proposed to his wife.

He had been told back then that it hadn't been his fault. He had been unconscious, so how on earth would it have been his fault? Mary reinforced the supposed truth over and over again, eyes always sad and tragic and lost. She'd lost her father that day, after all.

But how could it _not_ have been his fault? The last thing John remembered from that time was Samuel Campbell opening the door to the Impala, pulling Mary out—_"What did I tell you?"_— and John exiting the car to confront the man who had been, for years, against the idea of John and Mary being together. There had been words exchanged, a bare few, and then... nothing. And then... waking, cradled in Mary's arms until he remembered what had happened, saw Samuel's body laying on the ground, blood in a lethal place on his abdomen.

Her father had bled out. Right in front of her.

John remembered nothing of it.

But then... he remembered how angry, how terrified, how unnerved he had been. He remembered being willing to make a fight of it. What if he had? What if he had just... blocked it out? Just like he had been trained to do when necessary? It was really no wonder his mind sent him back into the jungle after reliving that lack of memory.

How could Mary love someone who might have killed her father, unrecalled self-defense or not?

Opening his eyes and meeting hers again, he could see no blame. Only love and a touch of anguish at watching him come to grips with himself, bring himself back to reality.

That had been well over five years ago, after all.

"Baby..." he heard Mary murmur as she leaned her head toward his.

He turned to kiss her on the crown of her head, still shaking and holding her hands—

He quickly unclenched the hand still pinning hers to the bed. He watched, sickened as the color started to return to those delicate fingertips. "Oh, God, Mary," he said, choking. "I didn't mean—"

"Shhh," she said, bringing that very hand up to put a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. "It's all right, love. I'm a tough girl. You know that."

"But I shouldn't've—" he began again, stomach falling into a pit.

The indignant look she shot him was also very much effective in silencing him. "John Winchester, don't you dare apologize for something like that," she scolded before scooting closer, reaching up to place her free hand to the other side of his face, forcing him to look directly at her. "I'm okay. You will never hurt me. I know you never will. I trust you. I love you, John. Pay me the same respect?"

He closed his eyes and bowed his head enough so that his forehead touched hers. "What'd I do to deserve you?" he mumbled, feeling as though he could cry from the relief that she was okay, she wasn't hurt.

"Well, that might have a little to do with your well-toned body..." she answered mischievously.

He snorted a bit, not able to resist the humor Mary was attempting to use to lighten the atmosphere. God, this was the woman of his dreams to be able to take everything in stride and have a quip to cheer him up. "And you keep tryin' to fatten me up with those pies," he responded ruefully.

A bit of a huff came next to his ear. "The husband is the cooking guinea pig, you know that."

That got an actual if gruff chuckle from him before he shifted, pulling her into his arms more fully. Just to feel and remind himself that this was his life, this was his love who loved him in return. He gave a bit of a sigh and kissed her head again, content to just sit there for a time.

"You gonna be able to go back to sleep?"

Sometimes, the nightmares kept him awake all night. Sometimes, he was able to pass out again shortly afterward. Having had this happened more than once before, Mary knew the pattern well enough. John only wished he could drift off into peaceful slumber, but it was one of those nights where the terror had sunk in deeply and didn't seem to want to uncurl from the pit that had once been his stomach.

"I'll make pancakes for breakfast when you wake up," he muttered as if in apology.

There was a beat of silence. Mary surely wasn't happy to hear that in the least.

"Make mine with chocolate?"

Or maybe she was just having a moment for a sweet tooth, John thought to himself, amused.

"Anything you want, babe."

Mary craned her neck so that she could give him a sweet, soft kiss. Once broken, she said softly, "Try to get some rest later in the day?"

John very much doubted that it would happen that day, but for his wife, the love of his life, he would agree with pretty much anything. "I'll take a cat-nap first chance I get, how's that?" The terms, of course, being that he couldn't keep himself busy enough.

It seemed to appease his wife well enough since she nodded before moving to settled back down to sleep. John stole another kiss from her, hand moving to her head, her blonde hair, and stroking soothingly. She was tired, he knew, and she only got more and more drowsy each day as they turned into months and her stomach expanded just that much more. A child, their first, and hopefully not their last as Mary would like to say with a smirk. It hadn't quite gotten to the point where the bump in her belly was noticeable but John stroked his fingers along her side all the same before silently moving away from the bed.

"Night, love..." Mary whispered to him as he retreated.

"Sweet dreams," he answered, smiling down at her until she settled again. Then, once sure she was sound asleep, he headed to the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

And try to shake the feeling the nightmare had left him with—of the image of yellow eyes staring down at him from Samuel Campbell's face just before everything went dark.

...

* * *

_Author's notes:_ bawwww John and Mary ;;

So yeah, uh. First attempt at their characters and I think I will be doing more installments on this fic.

Apologies if I failed at getting across John dealing with not only the remembered trauma of Vietnam but the NOT-remembered trauma of what happened with Samuel and Ol' Yellow-Eyes. I admit to working with my own personal experience of military men (my father was a Marine for 4 years and in the Army for almost 20) and whatnot. So. I hope this was to your liking and you all enjoyed!

Ftr, a KA-BAR is a fighting and utility issued to American armed forces including the Marines and Navy. Used through WWII, and yes Vietnam, to present day.


	2. if love is the treasure, laughter is the

**Wheel in the Sky**

_if love is the treasure, laughter is the key_

...

"Momma?"

No answer, just more burrowing.

"... Momma?"

Now there was a bit of an answering, questioning groan of a noise, but that didn't seem to satisfy the four-year perched on the edge of the bed. He bounced up and down on the bed as if attempting to wake the sleeping woman that way. When that didn't work...

"... Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom—!"

John chose to interfere at that moment, coming up from behind and making Dean shriek in laughter as he growled playfully, grabbing onto his son and tickling him briefly. "Hey, tiger, what're you doing up this early?" he asked once the squeals were down to mere laughter.

Mary eyed him balefully from her position on the bed, but John could only beam, having been awake for some time now. Dean ignored the silent exchange in favor of squirming in his father's arms, only to giggle and laugh more when John suddenly inverted his position, holding him upside-down above the bed.

His mother, now awake, blew at his blond locks when the four-year-old reached for her. "My, someone _is_ up early," she said as she met his eager hand with her own.

Dean giggled again. "Sammy did somethin'!"

"Oh, really?" said Mary, eyes shining happily at the name of their newest addition to the family. "What'd Sammy do?"

"He—" Whatever he did, Dean was never able to get it out as John began to swing his son back and forth, causing more laughter to erupt from the child. "Daddy, stoppit! Momma wants t'know!"

"So do I!" said John before swinging Dean back upright watching as the boy's green eyes lit up with laughter just before he tossed his son over to the bed where he then eagerly crawled over to his mother.

Mary wrapped her arms around the boy, ruffling his hair and kissing him on the head. "Now," she began, "if you two are done horse-playing, mind telling me what Sammy did?"

John chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed himself. Early mornings in the Winchester household was something to look forward to. Even if it included a hyper- active four year old who seemed to be a bit smarter than his playful nature let on. "Better question is what you were doing at Sammy's crib, Dean. You have your own room, don't you?"

"'Cause I'm a big boy!" affirmed Dean proudly before he looked over his shoulder to his mother, quickly adopting an uncertain and hesitant air. "But I didn't want Sammy t'be alone..."

John liked to think he knew his eldest son well enough to know a shame-faced look when he saw one. The only puzzling matter is why on earth would a four-year-old have that look. Dean was a bit more emotive than most kids—from what John had seen before becoming a parent himself, kids typically ran between Hyper or Tantrum. Biting his lower lip and looking like he was giving a regular pout, his son still managed to look as though he'd done something wrong.

Mary traded a concerned look with her husband while stroking the child's head. "Dean, sweetie, why didn't you want to leave Sammy alone?"

And that was when Dean burrowed closer to his mother and mumbled something about the "booger man" in the closet.

Oh, boy, the look Mary gave John at that...

"John, you didn't," she stated sharply.

The tone was enough to make even an ex-marine wince.

"You told your four year old son that there was a monster in the closet?"

Yeah. That pretty much was spelling out to John that he would be spending a few cold nights on the couch.

"Now, Mary," he started in a placating manner, biting his tongue about how she was coddling the boy and ignoring how Dean's wide green eyes went back and forth between his parents and explaining instead, "I just told some campfire stories. He heard some from the neighbor and wanted to hear more, so I told him. It's not like he doesn't have a nightlight already, so I thought there wouldn't be any problem."

"You _know_ how I feel about those kinds of stories, John!"

"C'mon, Mary. It's not like there's really anything in there," said John rationally. The way how his wife was glowering at him, however, stated that she was not having any of it. He sighed and looked to Dean, who was still watching the argument—not a fight, John wasn't going to let this spiral out of control into _another_ fight over nothing. "C'mon, Dean-o, you're not scared of some imaginary thing in the closet, right? I bet you're bigger than it."

The four-year-old seemed to have been considering this but squeaked when his mother pulled him closer.

"Enough, John," she said firmly.

John rubbed at his face. "Jesus, Mary, it's just a made-up story! You're gonna get him to be scared of the dark forever at this rate..."

The stink-eye she gave him made him frown.

"You're coddling the boy. What's the kids at school, when he goes to school, gonna say when they see him being such a Momma's Boy? And being scared of the dark to boot?"

... so that wasn't the best way to put it.

Mary straightened her back and looked her husband dead in the eye, facing down the ex-marine like a soldier herself. "I'll have you know, John Winchester," she stated boldly and decisively, "I would rather have my son be safe than worry about what some kids who might grow up to be reckless idiots think about him!"

Now John was completely lost. "Safe from _what_? It was just one story, Mary—"

"You're telling him not to be afraid of the dark! It's an instinctual fear! There's absolutely nothing wrong with it—"

"In this day and age, yeah. Yeah, there is something wrong with it—"

"John, you fought in a war, you tell me what was the worst part of the day. It's the time when you can see what's coming after you—"

"_Enough, Mary!_"

John could feel his hands start to shake just at the reminder of his own personal experiences in the dark. Mary must have realized how far over the line she had gone as she suddenly looked horrified and then immediately guilty, hugging Dean close and looking up at John with those soulful blue eyes of hers. Suddenly, everything was just a bit too close, there were too many eyes on him. Dean's wide, innocent green and Mary's knowing, understanding, sympathizing blue... just staring up at him just when his temper was about to get the best of him.

He quickly got to his feet and paced to the dresser.

"John..."

The plaintive, pleading tone in his wife's voice said as much as John's own thoughts.

He didn't want to fight. He was so tired of fighting...

"... m'sorry."

The small voice was nearly lost, muffled as it was, but John had heard it all the same.

He also suddenly heard the hiccup coming from his son who's eyes were no longer staring widely at him but were squeezed shut, tears quickly moving to spill down his cheek.

Mary was appropriately appalled.

John had absolutely no idea why on earth the boy would be crying.

"Shhh, shhh. Oh, Dean, sweetie..." Mary pulled the boy closer, letting him curl up against her as the sniffles grew louder and louder, tears becoming noisier. "What's wrong, baby?"

"M'sowwy d-din't mean t-t'make a fi'ht," stammered out the four-year-old, childish lisp that had been slowly working its way out of his speech coming back with a vengeance.

John dumbly stood where he was, astounded by the sudden shift from giggling happiness to full-out bawling his son was reduced to. It at least wasn't the wailing sort of cry that often sent his heart racing in a panic, but it still felt as though a spike was being driven through his heart, knowing he was part of the reason Dean was so upset. Mary seemed to feel the same way, and with a glance, the two of them agreed to put their disagreements aside to soothe the hurt their son was crying about.

Sliding back onto the bed, John hesitantly reached out to rub the boy's back. "Hey, kiddo, we're not fighting," he said gently, a bit of that coo that he used to use when Dean was a baby slipping in.

Mary agreed, "That's right, angel. Just 'cause Mommy and Daddy disagree about something doesn't mean we're fighting."

Only a bit bitterly did John wish that was entirely the case.

For a child of four, it seemed logical enough. "Reawy?" asked Dean hopefully, green eyes still watery and snot starting to drip down his face.

His mother simply took the edge of her nightgown and dabbed at his face, smiling easily. "Really."

"And no more scary stories, Dean-o," said John, meeting Mary's relieved eyes as he said so. "I promise. There's nothing in your closet."

"You're a wonderful older brother for wanting to protect Sammy, though," added Mary softy with an almost wistful smile before she kissed her boy on the head.

"'Kay..." was the small, warbly response.

And that was when John remembered the whole reason the disagreement come into play in the first place. "Speaking of Sammy," he said lightly, hoping to change the mood a bit. "What did Sammy do while you were protecting him from the not-monster in the closet?"

Like a flip of a switch, Dean was back to cheerful smiles and laughing green eyes, though Mary had to wrestle with him to get the snot off his face. "Sammy made a bubble! W'th his mouth!" Dean loudly proclaimed once his mother gave up on him as a lost cause.

His parents paused at that before looking at each other for a long moment. Mary was biting her lip to keep from laughing outright. John, however, didn't seem to find it very difficult to keep a straight face, telling his son in a serious manner instead, "That is a very important skill for your baby brother to learn."

Dean's eyes went wide with wonder. "I c'n teach him t'do it better!"

"I bet you can, scout," said John before pulling the boy into a light noogie and then proceeded to tickle him mercilessly. The child shrieked and laughed and giggled, squirming the whole while before Mary then joined in with blowing raspberries on his belly.

...

* * *

_Author's Notes: _... god, happy-go-lucky!four-year-old!Dean sort of rips at my heart since I know how things turn out. Bawww.

I sense a Mary POV chapter coming up next, but I guess we'll have to see! Hope you all enjoyed!


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